


Dearest Forsaken

by newredshoes



Category: True Blood
Genre: AU, Apocafic, Apocalypse, F/F, F/M, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/newredshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sing in me, o Muse! God of meat, god of touch, god of sweat and teeth and loin. Do your will in me, which gives me will and sets me loose as I was born. (Written for <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/danniisupernova/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/danniisupernova/"><b>danniisupernova</b></a> for Apocalyptothon 2010.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dearest Forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my fabulous betas [](http://oliviacirce.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**oliviacirce**](http://oliviacirce.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/eudaimon/profile)[**eudaimon**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/eudaimon/) for their always excellent feedback and encouragement!

Sing in me, o Muse! God of meat, god of touch, god of sweat and teeth and loin. Do your will in me, which gives me will and sets me loose as I was born. Tell of the one who lured you hence, who brought you roaring like the bull to us, and whom we in our joy ravened and tore and spread among us. Make us mindful of her and keep her close, our hair twined with hers, our wrists adorned with her bones, our bones inscribed with her cries and our skin made thick with her blood. We give thanks with the gleaming fat upon the thigh, the sacred entrails. We raise it in gladness and burn it unto you. May the scent be pleasing. May you stay among us until we are one with you in all things.

Lo lo Bromios, lo lo Dendrites, lo lo Eleutherios, lo lo Enorches.

*

Before she does anything else, when the engine shuts off Kenya rolls down the windows and listens. Muggy air from the outside sweeps in and undoes the a/c. Sweat beads at her hairline. There's a ruckus down by the bait shop, but none of those shouts and shrieks are close. She takes up her gun, unlocks the door and steps out. Nothing comes for her. The birds are still quiet, though. It's ten feet to the front porch. She crosses the lawn quickly and presses the bell.

"Police," says Kenya, checking over her shoulder. The inside door cracks open, and Arlene Fowler's girl peers up from behind the screen. "It's me," says Kenya, and holds up the gun. The girl lets her in at once, mindful of making noise. Her brother sits hunched on the floor, surrounded by a halo of miniature candy bar wrappers.

Last time Kenya had been here Arlene was throwing out a man who wouldn't leave. The girl had let her in that time too. "Lisa, right?" Lisa nods. Kenya notes the points of entry in the room. "Anyone else been knocking at your windows?"

"Not since last night." Lisa turns and looks at her brother, who hasn't stopped staring at the blank tv.

Kenya holds up her gun. "She still here?"

Lisa gulps. "Yes."

The boy pipes up. "She still ain't put on a shirt."

"Shut up, Coby!" Lisa hisses.

"Hey," says Kenya, too sharply. "Calm down. I'm here now."

The boy looks at her for the first time and frowns. "Where's your backup?"

_Prancing through Elks Hall in his boxers, shooting off pistols like Howdy-Doody on meth,_ she thinks, but instead she says, "Show me out back."

Lisa leads her to the kitchen, her thin shoulders tight beneath her red hair. Kenya keeps close behind her, mindful of the girl's bare feet. Lisa points to a screened-in back porch. The intruder is sprawled on top of a sagging trampoline. "Okay," she says, keeping her hand steady. "You and your brother go up to your rooms. Don't come out until I come back. Can you do that for me?" Lisa nods and hurries out. Kenya slips through the creaking metal door, keeping her gun out front.

Daphne has her back to the house. She clutches a long femur still stringy with muscle fibers between two hefty lion's paws. Her tufted tail flicks contentedly as she licks the bone, savoring every inch. Off-white wings tipped with dark blue curl over the swirl of scar tissue over her spine. Kenya lets her training take over. She keeps her sights fixed on her kill zone.

"Hey there, Kenya," Daphne drawls, without turning around. "I didn't see you last night."

"Nope," says Kenya, her voice steady. She hates it when they try to banter. "I was at the station, keeping the law."

"You should keep it there." Daphne turns the bone to get at a hank of meat. "We won't be needing it out in the world anymore."

"Hate to inform you," Kenya starts, and Daphne barks a laugh. She twists to face her, smeared with blood from her crown to her breasts. Kenya halts, squeezing her trigger. Daphne just smiles.

"Let it go, Kenya. We're not bound by man-made things. We're totally free now."

She clenches her jaw. "That's enough."

"There's no such thing." Her teeth gleam against the dark stain on her face. "The time is here. We're anything we want." She ignores the gun and stretches, claws emerging to knead into the tarp. Her wings fan out to either side. Kenya works hard to ignore them, and focuses on Daphne's torso. "I wish you would have been with us last night," she continues. "I wish the whole world could have felt it." Her eyes flutter shut.

Kenya circles around her, aiming at her front. "Nothing to feel but crazy and out of line, Daphne."

"It'll be everybody soon." She opens her eyes, slow rapture in every line of her face. "It's in the water. You know how the water table is in these parts."

Kenya narrows her eyes and lines up a heart shot. "You need to step down and come with me."

Daphne chuckles, low in her throat. "Look what we've done already. Kenya, there's no point holding off another minute." She drapes one paw over the bone. The tip of her tail begins to flick again.

The silence stretches as neither of them move. Kenya won't look at Daphne's human face, or her swollen cat's belly. She frowns at the long ragged femur. "Is that Maryann Forester you're chewing on?"

Daphne considers the bone for a moment. "She did us such a service," she says, her voice thick. "And an honor." A wistful smile tugs at her mouth. "I get it, why she needed me. She always said I had a part to play. Never imagined it would be like this. Isn't it cool?"

Kenya has had enough. There are rules in place that govern this, even this. There's no point in letting this game go any longer. She reaches for her cuffs, guessing at how thick those lion wrists are, and comes closer. "Daphne Landry, you have the right to remain silent."

"It could only have been me!" she laughs, and looks right at Kenya. "They were all under Maryann's power. Someone had to choose to heed him and strike her down." She has gorgeous eyes. Kenya freezes. No wonder she could lure a man to her bed with no charms to back her up. Her earnest expression slides into a smirk. "Well," she says, leaning forward, "it wasn't going to be Sam Merlotte."

Out of sight, a branch cracks. The moment is broken. Kenya and Daphne snap to attention. At the back of the yard, Maxine Fortenberry pushes through the forsythia bushes. Her loud, patterned shirt screams pink against the deep greens around her. Twigs stick out of her updo, and her remaining makeup is smeared. She pauses for a moment and squints at Kenya and Daphne. Now Kenya's heart starts racing. She can take Daphne, or she can shoot Maxine, but if both attack her she'll be up a creek. She braces herself for it. Down the road at the bait shop, someone begins to wail.

Maxine sighs. Without a word, she slowly crosses the overgrown lawn, slouches down the gravel drive and disappears behind the house.

Kenya turns back to the trampoline. The bone bounces as the tarp wobbles and goes still again. She glimpses two faces at the window, peering between the curtains. "Kenya," says Daphne softly, and she jerks around. Daphne is standing very close to her, fully human again. She swipes two fingers beneath her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Kenya stares at the pale streak it leaves behind. Daphne holds up the fingers. "You don't have to be sad, or scared. Come on." She smiles. "You wanna feel it?"

*

Even with her demon walking by her side, Lettie Mae can hold her head high. "You are out of me," she tells it as she picks her way through Beauregard Street. "I am righteous and filled with the spirit. There is nothing you can do to touch me anymore."

The demon says nothing. Now that it doesn't have her body to wrack, it just follows her, placid and noiseless. She thought it would look different than it does. There are no horns or hooves or forked tongue or tail. It has no clothes and no features. It's just an outline of a person, just her shape and size, the exact color of whiskey. Lettie Mae woke up in the middle of the night to find it hovering at her side. She screamed and cursed and threw her bible at it, and she raged at it for Miss Jeanette's sake, but now she sees it for what it really is and so she is serene.

"Jesus sent you to test me," she says, climbing over a fallen oak branch. "You are a test, because they have all failed. This town has gone over to the Devil, and God needs righteous people to stand for Him." She slaps at a mosquito on her arm. "He will know us by a sign. You're my sign, demon. You being outside me is my sign." Her toe catches on a cinderblock, and she grunts as she stumbles. "Ow. Amen."

She hobbles to a stop and tries to balance on one foot, shaking the other while the pain ebbs. She's woken up in rooms that look like this town. Someone has dumped all the paint from Mercer's Hardware in the street. Prints of bodies and body parts are stamped and smeared all over the walls like ghosts. Glass and bricks are scattered like teeth on the concrete. Alarms from stores and cars are screaming, while a fire rages untended at DeWeese Auto Parts. Voices rise up from time to time, but Lettie Mae can't see where they're coming from. "Tara?" she calls out, lowering her foot. "Tara Mae?"

A woman's voice peals out, a staccato burst of shrieking laughter. Lettie Mae drops her foot and grips her crucifix, ducking until she remembers that God is protecting her. The clamor grows, and the sound echoes off all the buildings. If there are words, she can't understand any.

Lettie Mae turns toward the Hallmark store. A skinned cat twists in the display window. The glass is still intact, and smeared with fluids. She looks over at her demon. "You were in me," she says. It doesn't move. A chorus of voices rises and falls like cicadas. It sounds like carnal ecstasy. Panic claws up inside of her. "I know how you hurt me!" she shouts. "Hurt them! Keep me safe! God gave you to me!"

The window in the Hallmark store shatters. A ceramic lamb smashes on the sidewalk, and the voices cheer. More keepsakes come flying out the window. One hits the cat and knocks it to the ground. Lettie Mae shouts and covers her ears. People begin climbing through the display, five or six of them in varying states of indecency. Lettie Mae straightens from her crouch. Tara isn't one of them, but Jane Bodehouse is. Her eyes, and all of theirs, are perfectly clear and normal. Her skin is full of scratches, bites and cuts. She cackles again, and Lettie Mae stumbles.

"Get back," Lettie Mae says, loud as she can, but they lunge forward, howling like apes and animals. Lettie Mae shields her face in the crook of her elbow. "Demon! Demon! Demon!" she screams, but the damn thing is useless.

"Stand down!" a voice bellows, and it fills the street like the voice of God himself. An enormous hand sweeps Lettie Mae's attackers aside. Mike Spencer goes flying; his head cracks against a lamp post and he crumples. Lettie Mae scrambles back as Jane grabs at her again. A huge bare foot kicks her aside. She cries out in shock and picks herself up. The pack barrels away down the street, some running on all fours. Lettie Mae stares after them, and at the long shadow stretching out over her.

"Praise Jesus, praise Jesus, thank you," she pants.

"No trouble at all, ma'am," says Terry Bellefleur, and she looks up. Terry is ten feet tall at least, wearing old sweats bursting at the seams. Lettie Mae gapes; her demon just watches them from the side. Terry bends down and offers his hand. She grips his thumb and he pulls her onto her feet. "I'm protecting Bon Temps now," he announces. "You looked like you needed protecting."

"God is my shield," she stammers, "but you did help. Thank you." With shaking hands she tries to dust off her dress.

He nods crisply. "Someone needs to organize this shit. Let's get you back to the CP. Insurgents everywhere around here. This is no place for anyone."

Terry's strides are huge. She hurries over the rubble after him. "I know what's going on," she says. "It's the Devil walking loose in this town."

"Not the Devil," says Terry from high over her shoulder.

She lifts her chin. "That's a sin to say that."

"Ain't a sin to kill vampires," Terry asserts. "That's what those jokers should be doing. I've been trying to round up a crew all morning, get 'em dug out. The God Who Comes doesn't like dead things."

Lettie Mae thins her lips. "That's no name for the Savior."

"We gotta smoke 'em out," Terry continues, eyes fixed ahead of him. "We're alive now. It ain't natural to let that sort of thing in your town." He squints, and it occurs to Lettie Mae that he is too big for his sunglasses now. "There's at least one still out there. Our crew really fucked that one up." He shakes his head. "I'll tell you something, though. I like hunting 'em out. I was never one of those guys who got hard in combat, but I sure get it now."

She nods appreciatively, starting to see her angle on this. "You're good at getting rid of things."

Terry grins. "Hajjis, vampers, anything indecent. Whole world's full of things need stopping."

"Can you get rid of my demon?" Lettie Mae glares at it. "It's no good to me. Doesn't do anything but look at me."

Terry goes quiet. "I don't know," he says, and doesn't add anything else for another half a block. Lettie Mae clutches her cross and keeps walking. She's starting to doubt that God's signs are making any sense. If this is the end times, everything should be clear. There's no indecision on Judgment Day. It's in the name.

"I think we don't have sin anymore," Terry says suddenly, doubling back. "I think we just have choices." He ignores the demon. Lettie Mae looks at it again, and slows to a halt.

"I don't want to be scared anymore," she says, and Terry stops and looks at her. She slips off her sandals and nods to herself, becoming more certain and sure. "I am as straight as the cedars of Lebanon. My heart belong to Jesus, and I shouldn't have nothing to worry about."

Under her feet the concrete cracks and shifts and opens up. She's aware of Terry stepping back, but she's focused on God's word. She tilts her head back and feels the sun warm her face. "I am raised up and my soul is pure. I am a beacon so that others may find me. I pray to God my daughter Tara Mae is one of them." Her back is straight and tall, and she lifts her arms heavenward. Sweet water flows beneath the corruption on Beauregard Street and in Bon Temps, she can taste it. She's not frightened. Lettie Mae breathes deep as the bark blooms and spreads over her skin.

"I will be a protector too. I will be a mother." She studies her fingers as shoots push forth from her. Life is all in her. "Holy spirit of Jesus, amen," she murmurs. Leaves unfurl, reaching toward God and the sun. Lettie Mae breathes in, and then her face goes still. She is hard and strong as armor.

Terry Bellefleur wipes away a tear. "Amen, sister." He's so proud he could burst, but he won't. This town is his, and he continues on his way.

The sun rolls westward. At four o'clock a propane tank explodes at the Mobile station up the street a ways. The mobs drift toward Merlotte's more and more. Late in the day, Maxine appears at the end of Beauregard Street. She has lost one shoe, but limps along, ignoring it. She pauses by the spreading branches of the little elm at Holloway Street. She stands in the shade, heaving slowly, and looks at the demon sitting quietly at its foot. The late sun pours through it. Amber light flickers on the ground. Maxine takes no rest, and passes through.

*

Jessica jerks awake to a heart that doesn't pound. The muscles in her throat constrict from memory, the gasp a reflex. Last night floods back to her all at once. She yelps before clapping both hands over her mouth. She waits, still as stone. The wine cellar is cool and silent. The furniture she threw in front of the door hasn't budged. She picks herself up and heaves aside the furniture she piled in front of the door.

Upstairs, the restaurant is ruined. Blood is spattered all over the walls and tablecloths. It makes the place where her hunger lives twist. She digs out her phone and punches the speed dial. Hoyt's rings six times before going to voicemail. Jessica swears and dials Sookie, even if she's still in Dallas. Sookie doesn't pick up, and neither do Bill or Eric. She's ready to throw the phone against a wall until she dials her last contact.

"Fangtasia, the bar with a bite," says Pam, already bored, and Jessica briefly unclenches her fist.

"Pam! Oh my God, it's Jessica, I am so glad to hear your voice. I need your help, there is something going on here, everyone's gone fucking crazy and the people are ripping each other to pieces and I can't find Hoyt or anyone else, and they were chasing me for hours and I'm so scared and I don't know what to do."

"Hold up," says Pam, irritation snapping right back into her voice. "You're not in Dallas?"

"No," Jessica hisses. "No, Bill sent me and Hoyt back to Bon Temps. He wouldn't say why. They were on us before we even got back to his house. Their blood made me sick," she adds as her insides grind and moan.

"Tell me," says Pam tightly, "can you feel Bill in Dallas?"

Jessica pauses. "Yes," she says, quieter. "He's very upset." She waits, but Pam says nothing. Jessica swallows. "Is... Eric—?"

"Shut up." Pam sighs, put-upon. "Get out of there. There's no other smart thing to do."

"No," says Jessica. "I have to find Hoyt. The sun came up before I could find him. I have to know where he is."

"He's a _human._"

"So was I, a month ago!" Jessica massages her temple. "Fine. Whatever. I'll do this myself."

"Little girl, try your best not to be a moron."

"What else am I supposed to do?" she shouts.

"Stay put until I get there," says Pam, and hangs up. Jessica stares at the phone, then up at her surroundings. Pale moonlight pools over jagged edges on the floor, broken furniture and shards of glass and pieces of people scattered all over. Good silverware litters the floor. She backs away toward the shadows, trying to stay alert.

"I'm fast," she reminds herself. "I'm faster and stronger than any of them." The memory of that crowd swarming over her, the noise they made, runs roughshod over her conviction.

Outside she can hear all kinds of things. Nightbirds are raising a panic, animals are yowling like stuck pigs, cicadas are whirring and wailing in frantic waves. She hears people mostly, people shouting, people screaming, people laughing, people fucking, people destroying things. It doesn't make any sense. Hoyt had told her about the murders his best friend did, but Bon Temps was such a sleepy little town. God, did she ever know that. This was the last place she'd ever expect to go so berserk.

Nothing moves in the street outside. Without the background noise it could almost be peaceful. She hangs back by the maitre d's station. Pam could be here fast if she wanted. Jessica has no idea how long it takes her to come on foot from Shreveport. Hoyt could be anywhere. He could be one of those wild people by now. The image of him being yanked away from her comes to her unbidden, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

He could be anywhere. Pam could take who knows how long. Jessica is stronger and faster than all of them. She's prepared now. It could be all right.

She ventures out the front door, peering up and down the street. "Hoyt?" she calls out, soft and tentative. Nothing answers. She knits her brow and bounces her knee, waiting and watching. "Hoyt? It's me. Can you hear me?"

She listens for him, for the voice who told her she was perfect, for the man who just last night brought her roses and candles and held her and touched her and loved her like something real.

Instead she hears screeching, a baying between the trees. Jessica stiffens. The birds around her go quiet or take wing. She begins to hear branches breaking, feet pounding, voices cracking like whips. "Shit," she murmurs. "Shit shit shit shit shit." The influx is moving in on her fast, from all sides. It'll definitely reach her before Pam does. They have her scent, and she remembers last night.

Jessica weighs her options. A calm takes hold of her, like when she's glamoring somebody. She slips out of her dainty cardigan, drops it on the ground and steadies herself at the door. Hoyt is out there. He deserves someone who'll help him. She makes note of her surroundings and remembers Pam's advice about men who get too grabby. The advance of the mob is close now: she can see them darting between houses and decorative trees. Somewhere behind them has to be Hoyt.

Her fangs come out. She is vampire. Fuck fair fights. "Come on, shitheads," she snarls, dropping into a crouch. "I will go through you."

They come, with their wild faces and bloody hands. It's just the same as last night. They surge toward her, screaming with bared teeth. She charges.

*

Sing in me, god who releases us. Move among us and make us ourselves. Now you are loosed upon the world again. Stay, and go, and work your will that gives me will.

Lo lo Bromios, lo lo Dendrites, lo lo Eleutherios, lo lo Enorches.

*

Maxine's knees ache. Her skin is all blisters, her feet are a disaster, her back is curved forward and her shoulders slope down. She toils on through the parish as the sun comes up again. She's too tired and worn to utter a single word. She hears her son's voice. She'll be able to stop soon.

He's singing by the creek bed by the old Stackhouse place. It's a Brad Paisley song, which he attacks with more gusto than talent. She follows it to the water, the dewy grass a balm on her shredded soles. Hoyt's head floats by a patch of weeds, caught in the crook of a web of roots. He's so focused on the song, he doesn't notice her for a verse. Her shadow falls over the light sparking the surface of the water. He looks up out of the corner of his eye and the first thing he does is smile. "Hey, Mama. Whoa, are you okay?"

Maxine says nothing. She lowers herself onto stiff knees, stretches out and fishes his head from the water.

"It wasn't so bad here," he says, "in case you were worrying." He sounds he's sheepish, like he's trying to reassure her. She holds him up, her hands beneath his jaw. "You haven't seen Jessica, have you?" he presses, with real concern. "The sun's come up twice since we came back here. I need to be sure that she's all right."

"Oh Hoyt," rasps Maxine, and cradles his head close to her. "Oh my boy." He was never this small, not even as a baby. He was such a big child, all the way from the start. She curls over him and begins to weep.

"Aw, Mama," Hoyt mumbles. She feels his face moving through her shirt. "Don't cry, Mama. I'll sing you something. Or hum. Whichever makes you feel better. Hey, Mama?"

Maxine exhales, the tears dripping freely as she trades body for stone.


End file.
